color me your color
by timorous-scribe
Summary: Title: color me your color Author: timorous-scribe Length: 1.2k Rating: T (maybe?) for language Spoilers: Directly follows events in 4x16 - Feud Summary: Santana's phone call to Quinn the night of 'Feud.'


**Title**: color me your color  
**Author**: timorous-scribe  
**Length**: ~1.2k  
**Rating**: T (maybe?) for language  
**Spoilers:** Directly follows events in 4x16 - Feud  
**Summary**: Santana's phone call to Quinn the night of 'Feud.'

* * *

"If this is some kinda booty call—" Quinn's tone says that the rest of her sentence (before Santana cuts her off) is probably going to be something snarky about Santana being a slut, or maybe even some posturing about how she knew Santana wouldn't be able to keep it a two-time thing; but the smile in her voice says no matter what she's _saying,_ it's a lie, and the truth is how totally more than okay it is if this is actually a booty call.

"They kicked me out." It tumbles out in a pissed-off rush, Santana's breath held in afterwards like she's physically holding herself back from spilling anything else.

"They wh—who kicked you out?"

"Donnie and Marie Osmond." She deadpans, waiting a beat. "Who do you _think_, Quinn? J_esus_."

"Okay..." Quinn's tone is that calming one you use in a terrorist negotiation, to buy time or keep them from wigging out. "What happened?"

"Sketchy-ass manwhore happened."

"The hairless drug dealer?"

"None other. He told the Wonder Twins I threatened him and they totally _flipped out_ like some Stepford kids gone new-age and it was completely creepy. They kicked me out, Quinn, _that's_ the point."

"Wait, you _threatened_ him?"

"He's a fucking _gigolo_, Quinn!"

"A _what_?!"

"A gigalo, Quinn. A Duece Bigalo midnight cowboy old lady _rafter-cleaning_ gigolo. And Rachel doesn't know, and I _tried _to tell them that they're my _family_ and sorry that I _give a shit_. But they're just so _stupid_ about people." Quinn knows Santana well enough to hear beyond the escalating volume to the rising warble in her voice.

"Okay, well." Quinn sighs. "You know how Rachel is with boyfriends... I'm sure Brody will show his true colors sooner than later, and you'll—"

"Too late for that." Santana has her emotions back under control and _none_ of them showed up for her response, so the detachment in her voice is immediately a bit terrifying.

"Oh-kayyy, nothing's on _fire_... right?"

"Oh calm down, Drew Barrymore. _You're_ the serial killer waiting to happen in this relationship, okay? I skipped the day they gave the arson badge in Girl Scouts."

Quinn sighs.

"What'd you do, 'Tana?"

"Right, because I _must've_ done something to cause this, right? 'Don't go through all our stuff, Santana.' Oh, 'quit confronting my boyfriend at our school, Santana,' 'What'd you do, Santana'..."

"You went up to NYADA to threaten him?" Quinn's smile has wrapped itself around her words completely, and it might as well be a lifeboat in the ocean for how relieving it is to Santana for _someone_ to be on her side, even if just for a moment. It's a gulp of precious air while she's drowning.

"I couldn't do it at the loft, Berry is so melted into that plastic she leaves an impression of her face in his waxy pecs."

"So he called Rachel—"

"And Kurt."

"So he called Rachel and Kurt and told them about you coming up there, and they asked you to leave." It's not a question, but a statement of fact put up for dispute. Santana gives a sharp _'mm-hmm_.' "And why exactly is it too late to let Rachel figure this out?"

Santana's silence is most terrifying of all.

"...Santana?"

"Yeah?" Defiance.

"Santana," she's using the terrorist tone again. "What did you do..." Like she's asking what color boots she bought. Like she's not wondering if they're really the kind of friends that help move bodies.

"I called Rachel's '_future husband_'"—Quinn can hear the eye-roll and air quotes through the phone—"and filled him in."

"Oh, Santana, _no_.. you didn't..." It's not the right thing to say, but it's honest and somehow rings with all the regret Santana's been fighting off and refusing to indulge since she hung up with Finn.

"Yeah, well, someone had to get through to her and being the kind of person that has _Will Schuester_ as a role model, he shockingly didn't have anything else going on." She sniffs derisively. "Besides, for whatever neurotic list of reasons I'm sure she has typed up and laminated in her Lisa Frank kitten folders, Rachel can't make a major life decision without letting _Finn Hudson_ weigh in."

"What'd he say when he talked to her?"

"I dunno, I left just before he beat the shit out of the singing dancing Real Doll."

"Finn came to _New York_? I thought he was running the glee club with Mr. Schue?"

"Oh!" There's a note of excitement in her voice as Santana is momentarily distracted from her own troubles by the scandalous rush of sharing good gossip. "Yeah, apparently Finn, in what I can only assume was a fit of wide-eyed spastic midget withdrawal, tried put the mack on Miss Pillsbury or something before the wedding."

"No _way_..."

"I _know_, right? They did some kind of boyband sing-off to get their issues out, but Schue said he couldn't forgive the man-child trying to steal his elf." There's a lull while they each consider the oddly fitting match that is Finn and Miss Pillsbury. Weird.

"So... he was already wounded from losing his mentor, then you called and triggered his white knight compex to come rescue his 'future wife'"—Quinn adds in her own eyeroll—"from her gigalo boyfriend, that he already hated anyway."

"Yep! Seriously, Quinn, whose side are you _on_ here? I mean, you're supposed to be my friend—that _is_ why I _called you_—and it sounds like you're sweatin' me about Finnadequate." Santana huffs a little in her frustration. "Like, since when do you care about _Finn_?"

"Since when do _you_ care who Rachel's shacking up with?" Quinn fires back. "Look, I'm just trying to understand—"

"Whatever. They don't understand and obviously neither do you, Brittany just parrots whatever stupid superhero line Sam's fed her... I am _so over_ this fucking joke of _family _with you people."

"Santana," Quinn begins, but Santana bowls right over her words, warble in her voice reaching the top of the Richter scale as she continues, stubbornly holding onto her angry martyrdom.

"I should've just called my Abuela, I mean, _really_. If I wanted to hear how much this is my fault, how I should've known better for thinking they would care enough to _trust me_," her voice cracks and Quinn says her name again, a hushed whisper that aches with the desire to just hug her friend.

Santana's growling scream of frustration has Quinn wincing at the volume.

"Thanks for reminding me where I stand, Quinn, I needed that. _Really_, _THANKS._" She's locked up the tears again—vulnerability never a good shade with her complexion—and reverted back to hyperactive rage.

"Santana, _stop_, listen to me for a sec..."

"No, Quinn, I think I've listened enough tonight. _[click]_"

"Well, shit." Quinn sighs at the blinking _Call Ended_ on her phone.

**You**  
Do you need somewhere to sleep?  
You can stay with me.

She doesn't get an answer for a few minutes and debates dialing Santana back, not sure how likely it is her friend will answer, nor how much she should even get involved. She's spared the decision by her phone buzzing in her hand.

**Snix**  
I have a hotel room.

Quinn knows Santana well enough to read the petulance in her tone even in text. She's typing out a hopefully reassuring '_Well the offer stands' _when she's interrupted by the buzz of Santana's follow-up text that tells her they're fine.

**Snix**  
I already told you this ain't no booty call, Q. Calm down.


End file.
